


he has gone across the sea gathering primroses

by Kt_fairy



Series: gathering primroses [1]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Fingering, Getting Together, Identity, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Post-Canon Fix-It, Trans Male Character, reference to francis's childhood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:55:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23399572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kt_fairy/pseuds/Kt_fairy
Summary: Francis’ mouth was just as soft and giving as James had imagined it would be. A thing that had happened more frequently over the past year than he would care to admit.Really, when a man was dying of scurvy one might expect him to have more pressing matters on his mind than kissing his captain. Although, Nelson had been comforted by Hardy in such a manner when he was slowly bleeding to death, so it might be said that James was in exalted company. If the manner of the kisses he desired were a little more thorough than one laid upon his forehead and then another upon his cheek, well - that had almost been between him and his God.Edit: second chapter added
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Series: gathering primroses [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2062230
Comments: 64
Kudos: 137





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_lenka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_lenka/gifts).



> Lenka prompted me to write this, the details of which are between us and the DM's.
> 
> MsKingBean, as always, I owe you my life.

Francis’ mouth was just as soft and giving as James had imagined it would be. A thing that had happened more frequently over the past year than he would care to admit.

Really, when a man was dying of scurvy one might expect him to have more pressing matters on his mind than kissing his captain. Although, Nelson had been comforted by Hardy in such a manner when he was slowly bleeding to death, so it might be said that James was in exalted company. If the manner of the kisses he desired were a little more thorough than one laid upon his forehead and then another upon his cheek, well - that had almost been between him and his God.

Even after five months huddled into the damp buildings of Fort Resolution, being fed all sorts of potions and tonics by the enigmatic native women who were wives to a few of the fur trappers, James could still come over faint and unsteady at times. Yet in this moment James thought his light-headed-ness might just be caused by finally kissing Francis.

They had been sitting on James’ cot talking - giggling - about something ridiculous. Giddy in the way of those who had almost lost their lives. A lull in the conversation came, a comfortable silence, and James had glanced at Francis and found the same look in his soft eyes that had been turned in his direction since before they left the ships. 

They were safe. King William Island had let them live. The world was blanketed in snow yet again, but there were trees and hills with gigantic moose amongst them. Life! And if the gentle moonlight was not a perfect setting to softly steal a kiss from your beloved, then what was?

Francis had yielded immediately, breath catching in his throat. He laid a strong hand a little awkwardly on James’ shoulder, not pushing him away and yet not drawing him closer, and James had pulled away as he did not wish to kiss someone who was unsure if they wanted him to. 

His backwards motion pulled Francis along with it as if there was a tow-line tied between the two of them. James paused in his retreat, and swayed forward to meet him again, feeling heat rush through him when Francis cupped his neck, thumb pressing into the skin beneath his jaw. 

They traded soft, careful kisses that were hardly chaste. Francis was fumbling, out of practice, which James supposed he was too after years of only the odd friendly peck from Dundy when the occasion called for it. He grasped at Francis’ upper arm, the strength there kindling the long dormant fire low in his gut, sliding his hand down to hold Francis’ elbow and pull him in closer.

He hesitated, and James loosened his grip, letting Francis move on his own accord. Their knees knocked together, and James moved to place his hand on Francis’ chest, right above his heart. 

Francis jerked back so violently he almost tipped off the side of the cot, managing to right himself before jumping to his feet. 

“I am sorry,” James said at once, hands held out peaceably. Some men needed to bark and growl before they accepted what they wanted, and James would readily take that from Francis, so attached had he become to him. 

“No. Do not,” Francis grumbled, moving a pace away to the other side of the tiny room they had been given, his back impossibly straight beneath the ill fitting clothing the Hudson’s Bay Company had lent them for the winter. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“And yet I still feel as if I should be very sorry if I have overstepped, Francis.”

He heaved a great sigh, raising a trembling hand to his brow. “I fear it is I who has overstepped in allowing this.”

“What on… oh come now. I am hardly likely to lay down to your desires simply because you are a _captain_!”

A grim look passed over Francis' features, almost pulling them into ugliness, before he turned away. “You once paid me a great honour by placing your trust in me when you shared… when you told me about your early years.”

James blinked at Francis, then sat straighter on the edge of the bed, folding his hands neatly in his lap so he would not fidget nervously. “I did. Yes.”

“And the reasons you went to sea.”

“Yes,” James swallowed, considering his next words carefully. “And you have told me of the _conditions_ in your home. The - that sent you to sea as a child.”

Francis nodded, falling silent for a little while, and James allowed him. He knew the resolve it took to summon up the sort of courage needed to lay yourself so bare, and he would wait as long as Francis needed him to. 

“ _Condition_ s,” Francis finally laughed as he turned back to James, the edges of his quiet voice sharp and brittle. “Do you know, I received the worst of my father’s drunkenness because I refused to sit and embroider. And when I did, I was either purposefully sloppy, or it was of things deemed ‘unsuitable’ for one such as I.”

James frowned, wondering what sort of father would terrorise their son for _not_ wishing to apply himself to embroidery. 

“I… I would always hate being put in my sunday best. Or having to dress for dinner in the evenings. My brother would lend me his old trousers during the day so we might go and steal apples or - or climb cows,” Francis smiled at the memory, the momentary lightening of his countenance almost causing James to forget his confusion; brothers having to lend him trousers? What on earth had been going on in that house. 

Francis turned from the cracked pane of cloudy glass that was their window, and looked towards the low light of the old stove that heated the room. “One night I hacked most of my hair off with some dressmaking shears. I looked a fright. My mother wept and wept while my father raged so fiercely I thought he might die. He - well, he threatened that if I did not mend my behaviour… ” Francis shook his head. “I ran away within a week with a forged letter from my father. There were so many of us children that the Navy men who knew the family did not question that they might not have heard of me.”

There was only one clear explanation for what James was being told, and yet it was as if his mind rebelled at the thought of it. He looked away, to the compacted dirt floor, then up to Francis who was holding himself so rigidly it was as if he might snap in two, then back down at the floor again. 

His thoughts trailed over the scores of women who had run off to sea and remained undetected (or at least unreported) for years, but he shrank back from that almost at once. The thought of Francis being anything other than what he was - a cruel drunk, a fine captain and scientist, a man as weak as any other - struck James as so ridiculous that he almost scoffed. 

He was shocked, yes, but not disbelieving. In fact, he was rather in awe that Francis had chosen to trust James with that at all, and not kept his secret by simply dismissing James' affections with any number of perfectly sensible reasonings.

James had told Francis about how he had created a life he would not be ashamed to live, had admitted to some of the masks he hid behind. The situations were nothing alike, of course, and James would never claim that they were, but he felt the ties between them become even surer than they were before. 

“I -" James began, noticing how Francis jumped as if he had forgotten James was in the room with him. “I think it is a great tragedy when a parent does not see the potential in their child.”

“Damn you James,” Francis hissed as he whirled about to face him. “Did you not understand what I have told you! If you are ignoring it for the sake of politeness…”

“I have not ignored it,” James shot back, getting to his feet. “I listened and understood perfectly. And it has not changed the man I see before me.”

Francis stared up at James, eyes wide. “I should think it does. Quite drastically.”

“Are you not still stubborn, hard mannered, and kind hearted? Have you suddenly lost your well earned rank and all the commendable, and reprehensible, things that you have done in your career? That is what you are. That is what you have made yourself,” James reached out to take his hand, then thought better of it and gripped his shoulder instead. “Did you only see an illegitimate mongrel when I told you my origins?”

“Do not talk about yourself in such a way,” Francis grumbled, rubbing a hand over his broad face. “Besides, it is not nearly the same.”

“All the acts of valour that you would have me lay claim to, that you would have a biographer tally as bravery, were they stripped away when I kissed you? Because many men who praise me now would discard everything I have done and call me a mollyanne instead.”

“Of course not.” Francis scowled as he looked away, which was just as well because James had just remembered the connection between Francis and Miss Cracroft, and he had no idea what his expression was doing as waves of realisation rolled over him. 

“If you do not want anything but friendship from me, then I will be content,” James said, clapping Francis on the shoulder before letting his hand drop back to his side. “And if you only want kisses or - or if you need time, then I will be… ”

“Do not be patronising, James,” Francis snorted, then peered at James’ face with those sharp, perceptive eyes of his that still made James want to run and hide. “You are so reckless. You have not given this one single thought, have you?”

“I have thought about it for months, Francis. It is why I kissed you after all.”

Francis shook his head in disbelief. “I cannot see how this has not changed everything for you. You prefer the company of men, James.”

Such closeness as they shared would make certain things very apparent, James knew that, and that he had confirmed any suspicions Francis may have had by kissing him. Nevertheless, it still took James a moment to absorb that declaration made with such easy confidence.

“I feel as I do because of who you are,” James explained, trying not to become exasperated. “Not because you are - not because of anything else. And even so, are you not a man?”

“Yes I am,” Francis nodded, then jabbed James in the chest so hard that he gasped. “And therefore, I will not be spreading my legs!”

“I was rather planning on it being the other way around.”

Francis raised an eyebrow, and James felt himself blush. “Is that so?”

“Yes.”

A look of indecision passed over Francis’ face, then he reached out to put an unsteady hand on James’ hip, pulling him in close so Francis could press his lips softly to the corner of his mouth. They fell into kisses that were a little more forceful than before, Francis’ hands trailing all over James who was careful to keep his touch only to Francis’ arms and the breadth of his shoulders. 

“What were you planning?” Francis asked when they parted for breath, fingers curling around the narrowest part of James’ waist as he pulled him close enough for his half hard prick to press into Francis stomach. 

“Uhh,” James replied dumbly, a little drunk on kisses. Francis laughed, a dry, quiet sound, and James could not help grinning. “It was something to do with you having me on my back, I believe.”

“Well then,” Francis, murmured. “If you take your trousers off, I will see what I can do.”

James slipped out of his patched, faded blue uniform trousers without an indecent amount of haste, he hoped. He went to his cot, considered how narrow it was, and piled all the furs and blankets onto the floor next to the stove where it was warm and bright, then pulled Francis to lay down beside him.

Francis held James close as he kissed him. His rough palms stroked James’ thighs, cold fingers slipping up under his shirt to warm themselves on the still tender skin over his ribs. The only sounds were their panting breaths and the faint noises coming from the living wilderness that surrounded the fort. 

The furs were plush and soft, but the floor beneath them was hard and unforgiving, and the bones of James’ shoulder and hip were still sharp enough under his skin that they eventually began to cause him pain. James rolled onto his back with a sigh, pulling Francis with him to settle between his legs. 

Things progressed from there with a rapid, desperate heat. Francis had put James’ hand inside his jumper to touch his lower back through his soft linen shirt, which James did with great conscientiousness while Francis tugged at his prick. 

James’ heart had not beat so fast since he had been hauling, half forgotten pleasures and twitches running though his body as he breathed steadily through his nose. There was only spit to ease the way, which was usually not a problem for James as most of his indulgences had been quick fumbles in the darkened parts of a ship, but as it dried James found he was so sensitive that every pass of Francis’ callused hand had him teetering on the edge of pain. 

Francis must have heard it in his gasps and sighs, or felt the friction, as he spit into his palm again, then seemed to decide to lick his fingers for good measure. 

“Oh Jesus Christ,” James said in one rush of breath. “Would, would you - Francis would you put them in me.”

The flush on Francis’ cheeks darkened wonderfully. He nodded, eyes catching the light from the stove as he watched James bundle up his trousers and shove them under his hips.

“You have no sense of shame, do you?” Francis muttered, gaze trailing all over James as he ran his dry hand down the inside of James’ thigh. “Although. If I looked like you I do not think I would have much shame either.”

“I am not -” James began, thinking of all the scabs and scars he bore, of his ruined smile and hair that had been cut short in the worst of his fevered illness. Francis was looking at him in a way that bore no argument, so James just knocked his knee against Francis’ elbow. “I do not feel any shame with you.”

Francis shook his head, and bent over James once more to kiss him deeply. “I have not engaged in anything like this with a man for a while,” Francis breathed as he put his hand between James' legs, fingertips stroking over him. 

“Me neither,” James admitted, voice hitching as a tremble ran through him. It had been very nearly a decade since James had dared to do anything like this, but he felt like now was not the time to bring that up. 

“All right, then,” Francis said mostly to himself, eyes never leaving James’ face as he pushed into him. 

James had to cover his mouth to stop embarrassing noises flooding out of him as Francis frigged him in the arse. The pressure of Francis’ sturdy fingers inside of him, the burst of liquid pleasure when he thrust them in at the right angle, the weight of his gaze as he watched James carefully were indescribable sensations. In fact they were almost unbearable, and James felt like he might die when his paroxysm was ripped out of him by Francis’ gentle hand.

He did not know how long he lay there insensible, or indeed if he had passed out. When James finally become aware again Francis was sat beside him drying his hands on a cloth, a flush still on his cheekbones and the fire light shining through his disordered hair. He smiled when he caught James looking at him, broad and slightly impish, and James was so struck by him that he found himself blushing.

“Francis, old boy. I do not think I shall be able to move for an hour. After then, I am at your disposal for all and anything you might wish from me.”

“Quite a promise,” Francis murmured, eyebrow arching. “I shall hold you to it, one day.”

“Do,” James sighed, reaching out to touch Francis’ arm. “You’re far too lovely, Francis. I demand a kiss in recompense.”

Francis snorted, and dumped the cloth on James’ face. 

“A fine way to repay a compliment!” James huffed as he pulled it away, all complaints forgotten when Francis kissed him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My adoring public (like three people) asked for this, but most importantly Lenka. So here we are.

Francis was not in the habit of letting people touch him. He allowed it rarely in friendship, and on only a few occasions with a lover. 

Women tended to be more forgiving than men when it came to his _appearance_ , which seemed apt as he had never been forgiving of it either. He had not been made as he wished he had been, nor as handsomely. And then he had become old.

All of that seemed to matter very little to James, which made not one ounce of sense. Every time Francis had tried to make him stop and think a moment (for both their sakes; they had lived through enough hurt already), he was unspeakably reasonable and gentle in return, and unflinchingly certain about Francis. More certain than Francis thought he had ever been about himself.

What mattered most to Francis was that James had not made a fuss. Nothing had changed in the way he spoke to or treated him, not before the men and not in private. James' gaze did linger sometimes, as did his touch, his smile coming brighter and more genuine than Francis could ever remember. 

He was sprawled out next to Francis in this moment, here in this narrow little room that had not felt quite so stifling and uncomfortable since James had kissed him. Until very recently Francis had not thought James capable of being so lax in his posture, but his shoulders were resting on the cool wooden wall Francis was leaning against, his feet flung out and propped up on the frame of his own bed, long flannel drawers just visible below the hem of the faded skirt he wore.

There had been festivities earlier in the evening. The Chief Trader in charge of Fort Resolution had suggested some theatricals to try and cheer all the men packed into the low, cramped buildings, and everyone had thrown themselves into the preparations with great determination. Instruments had been found or whittled, songs and jokes practised in what little privacy there was, costumes stitched and questionable plays written. 

Which was where James had fit into it all, being cast by Mr Peglar, along with Le Vesconte, as ridiculous maiden aunts. The pair had made such an alarmingly good job of it that Francis still ached from laughing, and for a moment he had thought Blanky's merriment might bring the whole fort down around them.

James had yet to remove the dress that had been made from some old shirts and left over cloth found in the Hudson Bay Company stores. He seemed un-bothered by it, and Francis could not help appreciating the way it showed off more of him than his usual bulky borrowed woollens and patched bits of uniform. Like the pale skin of his wrist, visible beneath the gathered sleeve that slipped down James’ arm when he reached out his hand for Francis to take. It seemed like the last untouched, unmarred place on either of them, that strip of skin where Francis’ thumb had come to rest when he fit their palms together. 

James' was not a slight man. He was tall and strong, even after scurvy had torn into him, with longer limbs and larger hands than most men, and although the navy had taken a small child of thirteen years and made a robust man of him, Francis’ broad hands had no hope of matching up against James' own.

Francis touched the calluses on the hand he held, half listening to what James was describing to him. He slotted his own pale, weathered fingers between James', examining the golden tones of the scarred skin that covered his knuckles and the nails that James somehow managed to keep neat. His fingers were long and gentle, something that Francis had taken notice of on the first occasion of their meeting, and James had a habit of fidgeting and fiddling with them in a way that had been deeply infuriating once. Now, as James swept his fingers up and down between Francis' own before curling them over to tap out a rhythm on the back of Francis' hand, he found the habit to be… distracting.

James seemed to - no, he _did_ enjoy what Francis could, and would, do for him. The past week had made that abundantly clear. As well as his sincerity whenever he told Francis that when, or indeed if, he ever wanted anything from him all he need do was say the word. (And when James had done so before sucking Francis’s fingers lewdly into his mouth, he had been very compelling.)

He had always trusted James, be it with the men, with his life, and now with his secret. But to trust him with a body that Francis was not wholly at ease with - that had taken a few days to settle.

A tap on the side of Francis’ hand drew his attention to James who was watching him gently, raised eyebrows creasing the scar that ran across his hairline. “My hand is more interesting than I am, it seems,” he smiled, thumb stroking over Francis’ knuckles. 

Francis glanced down at James’ hand resting in his lap. “On this occasion it is. Yes."

He watched the realisation dawn, and despite the way his pulse was beating he couldn’t help laughing at the way James sat bolt upright. “It is?”

“I did not think this room was large enough to echo.”

“... _to_ _echo,”_ James sang back to him faintly, mimicking an echo, and grinned when Francis snorted at the artless joke. 

“Your hand is more interesting, yes,” Francis said frankly. “I couldn’t tell you a damn thing that you were saying.”

“Ah well. I shall survive it, I think,” James said softly, tilting his head just so. 

It was still strange to see him with his hair cut short from his sickbed, even if it was occasionally amusing to watch him try and toss locks out of his eyes that were no longer there. Francis reached up to cup his face, passing his fingers somewhat mournfully through the awkward length of James’ hair as he moved to kiss him. 

James angled himself into Francis, eager but not forceful, fingers flexing in Francis grip as he reached for him with his free hand. Francis caught it, and placed it just above his knee. Then thought that was too coy, and moved James’ hand high up his thigh. 

He tensed out of habit, but it went ignored by them both. Francis was not nervous, and certainly not uncertain, for if he was he would not have begun this, let alone allow James to press his fingertips against the inseam of his trousers. Nevertheless, he was in no rush; Francis ran his hand up the curve of James’ spine, feeling the sharp bumps through the thin material of his costume, the low neckline allowing him access to the cool skin of his shoulder.

Maybe it was age that made him happy to enjoy being kissed, or that he was letting himself feel his own desire for the first time in years. He let it build until he was breathless from more than just kisses, until he was sure, then set his legs further apart and pressed James’ hand against where his desire beat insistently along with his pulse. 

There was some unromantic adjusting of limbs, James huffing as he yanked his skirt up and out of the way, his flannel underwear sadly hiding the shape of James legs’ that Francis appreciated so much.

James soon worked out what was needed, rolling the heel of his hand as Francis rocked his hips down against the wonderful, aching pressure. He had his eyes closed to concentrate on the feeling lest it slip away, his breath hitching whenever warm, chapped lips pressed against his own, or to his cheek, or when James moved to kiss the skin of his throat. 

Francis reached out to grasp his forearm, feeling lithe muscle through the thin sleeve, then down to curl around James’ waist and shift him closer. It was good, he felt good, mellow and easy with the occasional spark going through him as James kneaded between his legs, but it was not enough. He was aware of how awkwardly he was holding his legs and the uncomfortable way they were angled together, and knowing that he should not be giving those things a thought only made Francis more distracted.

He sighed in frustration and James stopped his movements.

"Do," James began, clearing his throat when his voice caught. "I don't know what to - do you want closer contact?”

For a man who was always brazen when asking for what he himself wanted, it both amused and irritated Francis that James was being so coy now. He shoved James' hand away with a huff, giving him a look as he began to undo his own trousers and braces. 

James shifted, and Francis felt the hard line of his cock press against his hip. He looked up at James who was watching his actions with bright eyes, hand left hanging in the air as he waited for Francis, doing a fine job at patience for a man who threw himself headfirst into things.

"Will you - " Francis huffed as he pulled his linens open, bringing his legs up to set his heels on the frame of the cot. "James, would you put them in me."

James blinked at him, then smiled slowly. "I think I can manage that, old boy," he murmured, a wicked, knowing look on his face as he put his fingers in his own mouth to wet them.

"I may love you, but you are an insufferable swan," Francis told him, and James barked a laugh.

There was no more coyness after that. James was a quick study yet again, and soon Francis was panting, burning hot for the first time in years. The world shrunk down to the unyielding pleasure rolling in his gut and out thought his limbs. To James' mouth on his, swallowing his grunts and gasps, to his long fingers curling into Francis as he frigged him with just the right amount of firmness, the heel of James’ hand still rocking against him.

Francis was pushed up, up, up towards the precipice where he teetered a moment before sparkling heat rushed over him. Then, somehow, James had him back on the precipice again, and Francis grabbed at James' wrist as he shuddered and gasped, unsure whether to hold his hand in place or push it away.

He felt like the sweetest, blackest of treacle's once James stopped working him - heavy and slow. He clenched his legs together when James removed his hand, wincing at the loss, and then again when James wiped his fingers on the rucked up skirt and shoved his hand into his own underwear.

Francis would have helped if James did not seem to have the matter in hand. He sat up enough to kiss the ball of James' shoulder, the muscles there flexing as he frigged himself, and then along his collarbone to scrape his teeth over the base of his throat when James grunted and then sighed.

"Well," Francis murmured when they had both recovered themselves.

"Well indeed," James agreed, pecking Francis on the cheek before wiping his hand on the dress once more and sitting up.

Francis watched him undo the laces and then haul the dress off over his head so his pale, scarred, too thin body was left bare from the waist up. Francis reached out to try and chase away the goosebumps that ran up James’ back when the cool air touched his skin. 

"I think Dundy still has my jumper," James mumbled as he made to stand, letting out an ungainly noise when Francis pulled him back down. 

"I will recover it for you later," Francis said, tugging the furs aside.

The cots were small, but no smaller than a bunk aboard ship. They found a way to fit together, Francis not minding that he was pressed back against the wall while James seemed not to mind his feet and knees hanging over the edge, curling himself up so his back fit against Francis.

"I do love you too, you know," James said into the silence, trailing his fingers up Francis' arm. "Even if you are a charry old cove," he added lightly, and laughed when Francis jabbed him in the side.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I let my thing for Tobias' massive hands get away from me? Yes, but that's my business.

**Author's Note:**

> Trans men are men *shoots a pistol in the air a la Dundy*


End file.
